


Muzzle

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (Slightly), Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Choking, Gun Kink, Knifeplay, M/M, Spit As Lube, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 12:36:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2192103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Who are you?' the man says, his voice like the sharp sting of ocean wind, but muffled, echoing just a little bit behind the mask.  </p><p>Steve would answer, but the metal hand is pressed over his throat, choking any words before they reach his tongue. He gasps in breaths, tries to pry the soldier's fingers away from his neck, tries to push him, kick him away. </p><p>'<i>Who. Are. You?</i>' he bites out again, only tightening his grip further so that Steve can feel his head going light. He glares at the soldier, gestures to his throat. </p><p>The soldier just makes a frustrated sound and, with his free hand, pulls out a gun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Muzzle

**Author's Note:**

> For the #doitwiththemaskon [ficathon](http://maskonplz.livejournal.com/) prompt: 
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> _Cap/Winter Soldier where Steve still doesn't know who it is under the mask._
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> _Can be noncon or (more-or-less) consensual, as you prefer. Bonus points for: gunplay/knifeplay/weapons porn, choking or fingering with the metal arm, Bucky going increasingly erratic as he recognizes Steve._
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> I feel bad because someone has in fact already filled it, but hey, I was already 2k in when I noticed. Two fills are better than one, they're twice the fun, etc. 
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> HEED THE WARNINGS. This is not a happyfuntimes fic. Also, totally quick, rough and not betad. Sorry!

'Who are you?' the man says, his voice like the sharp sting of ocean wind, but muffled, echoing just a little bit behind the mask. 

Steve would answer, but the metal hand is pressed over his throat, choking any words before they reach his tongue. He gasps in breaths, tries to pry the soldier's fingers away from his neck, tries to push him, kick him away. 

' _Who. Are. You?_ ' he bites out again, only tightening his grip further so that Steve can feel his head going light. He glares at the soldier, gestures to his throat. 

The soldier just makes a frustrated sound and, with his free hand, pulls out a gun. 

Around them, the otherwise crisp day is hot with sparks from an ignited car crash. There is ongoing gun-fire, the sound of people screaming and feet hitting the pavement. The soldier seems oblivious, or uninterested. 

He is pressing the gun to Steve's jaw, his eyes narrowing and searching, searching every inch of Steve's face. The gun is cool, unflinching metal against his jawbone, pressed hard enough to bruise, almost. Slowly, the barrel comes up, tracing over the jut of Steve's chin as he tries to stare back equally unwavering. It presses over the swell of his bottom lip, the soldier's eyes locked onto where the gun barrel is tracing over his features, memorizing them. 

_Just shoot_ , Steve thinks impatiently. He wonders why the assassin isn't: something isn't right here. 

The soldier's grip loosens on his neck, and Steve sucks in a gasping breath – the barrel of the gun slides into his mouth as he opens it, settles on his tongue. It stretches his lips, his teeth scraping on metal and jaw tensing with discomfort. Steve tries to shift back, and his head bumps against the metal of the van door he is pressed up against. 

The soldier lets out another growl of frustration and hisses, ' _Who are you_?'

Steve just grunts back. The soldier's finger is on the trigger, tense and – Steve notices suddenly – trembling just a little. Steve tries to calculate what he can do to fight back, knowing any sudden movement will end with him with a bullet through his skull. 

His best bet, he decides, is to let the soldier think he's in control. Cautiously, he raises his hands up, palms out, and tries to catch the soldier's eyes. There is something about those eyes. 

The soldier just glances, left and right, and then back at Steve. He is so close that if it weren't for the mask, Steve would be able to feel his breath, hot on his face. As it is, he can just here the quickened inhale, exhale, huffing behind the muzzle. 

'We're going,' the soldier says suddenly. The gun comes out of Steve's mouth, the hand moves from being pressed around his throat to gripping at the back of his neck and shifting so the soldier can push him forward. 'Stay quiet.'

They don't move quickly, exactly, but they move swiftly and unseen. It is chaos all around, and it is clear that the soldier knows how to use the chaos to his own benefit. He doesn't hide, doesn't duck into shadows – just moves precisely where he needs to go without being noticed, where distractions will draw the eye the other way. He pushes Steve forward ahead of him, gun barrel at the nape of his neck. 

They end up in an underground car-park, the sounds of the chaos outside muffled like the soldier's voice behind his mask. 

'You're job is to kill me,' Steve challenges as the soldier leads him forward, strides echoing on hard concrete. 'You could've done it by now.'

The soldier sweeps his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to his knees. Steve feels the hard press of a boot between his shoulder blades, pushing him forward so that he's kneeling, hunched down over himself. The gun is still nuzzling the base of his skull. 'Shut up,' the soldier snaps. 'You're my mission, and I will-- I--' His words are bitten off, swallowed down forcefully. Steve can here the shard exhale of irritated breath behind the mask, behind his back.

'You asked me who I was,' Steve grits out, glaring down at the yellow line painted on the concrete beneath him. 

' _Yes_.' The soldier's boot pushes down even harder, making Steve's shoulders tense and hunch. His neck is aching. 

'My name is Steve Rogers,' he offers, but his only response is a harder press of the gun barrel into his skull and the feeling of the soldier's knee on his spine. The soldier is basically crouching on him now, pinning him down with his whole body, and the metal arm comes back around to Steve's throat, pulling his neck up so it strains. 

'I know _that_ ,' he spits. 

'Then I don't know what you want to--'

'My mission is to eliminate you.'

'Then do it,' Steve gasps, not really sure whether he expects the soldier to take him up on it or not. 

But the soldier just hisses: 'Not until you tell me who you are!' 

Steve doesn't respond, just pants in shallow breaths from the way the soldier is simultaneously pushing him down and pulling his neck up. The metal thumb presses in under his jawbone, tilting his head to the side so that Steve can glance up, whole body tense and strained, to meet the soldier's hard eyes. They are close, only inches away as he hunches down over Steve, and searching his face frantically, angrily. 

Then, suddenly, the soldier is snarling, and pushing Steve down onto his back, straddling his chest and pinning his arms down with his spread knees. 

The concrete is cold and rough under Steve, and he winces as the soldier pushes his head back forcefully to hit the ground, the gun coming up to his lips once more. Not pushing inside this time, just hovering there, the faint taste of gun oil and metal against Steve's mouth. 

'Do you know who I am?' the soldier asks, hollow through the mask and his eyes hard, boring into Steve's. 

Steve shakes his head. 'No, how would I?' he pants out, but suddenly it sounds like a lie to his own ears. There's something achingly, painfully familiar about the eyes locked on his, about the voice, hard edged and distorted by the muzzle. It's like he's been played a few out-of-context moments of his favorite film, without the images, and then been asked to describe what's happening on screen. 

He _can't_ , but he feels like he should be able to. 

'You're lying,' the soldier says, coming in so close that the mask bumps against the corner of Steve's mouth, clinks against the metal barrel of the gun. If it weren't for the barrier between them, it would almost be a kiss. As it is, it's just the hot, angry press of the soldier's body of his and the finger still shaking on the trigger. 

Steve is pretty sure that the Winter Soldier, the mythical assassin, the ghost, shouldn't be trembling this hard at the brink of shooting someone. There's something wild in his eyes, and his whole body is basically humming with tension. 

'I'm not,' Steve replies, lips brushing over the metal of the mask, of the gun barrel.

Then the gun is gone, and the soldier is slipping it back into its holster and pulling out a knife instead. He sits up, and brings the knife down to – surprisingly – cut through the fabric of Steve's t-shirt. 

'What, what are you doing?' Steve asks, and he knows that _now_ would be a good time to fight back, to stop this – whatever this is – going any further. But he can't. Something inside him is stopping him, pinning him in place. 

'Investigating,' the soldier answers as he sheds Steve of his shirt and jacket roughly, cutting them to pieces until they're just lying in a tattered mess under Steve's body. 

The soldier's eyes flicker over his body frantically, the knife still in hand. Steve can feel the cool edge of the blade pressing against his collarbone, just lightly. It seems to almost have been forgotten by the soldier, who is distracted, his eyebrows drawing together and hair hanging down so that his eyes are in shadow. 

'No,' he mutters, metal hand coming out to splay over Steve's chest. Pushing, pushing. 'No, this is _wrong_.'

Steve's heart is thudding in his chest as the soldier starts to move his metal hand over Steve's body, searching and distressed. He squeezes at Steve's rib cage, presses his thumb into his sternum. Nothing seems to satisfy him. ' _What_ is wrong?' Steve asks, trying for calm. 

'You,' comes the reply. 'You are wrong.'

Steve swallows. 'What do you mean?'

The soldier slams his metal hand down onto the concrete, and it cracks. He growls. 'I mean what I said!' he snaps. 'You're not how I remem--' Cutting himself off, Steve sees something shift in the soldier's eyes. They squeeze shut for just a moment, and when they blink open again they're harder, and the soldier's muffled voice is blanker, more level. 'Nothing is right,' he says, as if his own distress and confusion is just a trick someone is playing on him. He re-tightens his grip on the handle of the knife and lifts it up to Steve's throat. 'I'm going to kill you.'

He says it decisively, like he's just giving up on a slightly irritating puzzle, and Steve suddenly finds he can move again. His hands fly up to wrap around the soldier's human forearm, trying to hold the knife back, and he quickly stammers out, 'No, no, no, you know me. Don't do this, don't... take off the mask, let me see you. Let me see who you are, maybe--'

For just a short, aborted moment, the soldier hesitates, brings his metal hand up towards his face – then he shakes his head. 'It's not allowed,' he says. 

'Don't you want to know?' Steve urges, trying to lock eyes with the soldier's – and gets nothing but a stern glare in response. The knife presses against the soft skin of Steve's neck, but doesn't pierce the skin. Steve is using all his force to hold the soldier's arm right where it is. 

A few moments of tense silence pass, until finally the soldier slackens his grip on the knife and just lets out an angry, frustrated noise. The blade clatters to the ground, the noise reverberating in the large, empty space. 

'If you move,' the soldier grunts, 'I won't hesitate to shoot you between the eyes.' 

Steve is sure that he means it. He stays motionless, feeling the hard concrete beneath him, and watches the soldier carefully. He is no longer holding a weapon (although the arm itself arguably counts), and he is moving slowly, slowly forward to bring his masked face back in closer to Steve's until their eyes are directly level, locked together. 

The metal of the mask bumps Steve's chin, and then the soldier is moving down his body, inspecting every inch of his exposed chest with his hands and his eyes, the muzzle bumping against the bone of his clavicle, the swell of his pecs. 

Steve flinches from the contact. It is strange, oddly intimate; almost like a series of clumsy, curious kisses down his torso. But nothing like that. It's like a dog bumping its nose down something that smells unfamiliar, trying to take in the scent. But nothing like that. 

It's like a wild animal that wants to eat but can't bite. 

'What—' Steve starts, but the soldier just digs his fingers into Steve's side, warningly.

'Don't speak,' he says. The soldier's searching touches are hovering somewhere between curious and rough, but there isn't anything particularly intimate about them until all of a sudden the cool metal fingers brush over Steve's nipple, then pinch, twisting. It's not gentle, not at all, and it sends a spark of sensation through Steve's body, both painful and, to his own discomfort, pleasurable. 

He cries out, and the soldier looks up. He does it again, and Steve manages to hold back the cry this time, but it comes out strangled in his throat. Something lights up in the soldier's eyes, and the corner of one crinkles a little bit. 

'Again,' he orders, and twists Steve's other nipple this time, this time harder. Rougher. Steve can't help but let out another pained, gasping sound. 

'No, no don't,' he chokes out, and suddenly the soldier's human hand is coming up to scrape down Steve's chest with blunt nails, leaving red welts behind. 

'I told you not to speak,' he snaps. Steve bites down hard on his tongue, grimacing. He isn't sure why he isn't kicking the soldier off him and fighting. They should be _fighting_ , not... whatever this is. But he can't bring himself to do it. For one thing, with the soldier's reflexes, it's perfectly possible that he would, indeed, be dead in seconds if he tried anything. 

But that's not what is stopping him. Potential for death or grievous bodily harm has never stopped Steve Rogers doing anything. What is stopping him is the soldier's eyes, the distant, familiar edge to his voice. The way he seems to be walking a dangerous edge here himself, violating his own mission just because there is something about Steve that has made him _stop_. 

But now the soldier is tearing at the fly of his jeans, and that makes Steve tremor and wince, because _what the hell_? The worst thing of all, is he can feel his traitorous body already reacting to the way the soldier is handling him, even if it is careless and violent. 

The jeans are torn down swiftly, with the soldier pushing them to Steve's ankles and leaving them tangled there, restricting his movement. The the soldier seems to pause, hands hovering just over Steve's flesh. 

'Done this before,' he says, and Steve shakes his head, because the only man who has ever done this to him before is--

The soldier shoves his metal fingers into Steve's mouth and orders, 'Suck.'

They don't taste too much different to the gun, really. Metallic and unforgiving against his tongue. Steve doesn't really do as the soldier says, doesn't suck on the fingers, but it doesn't really matter, because the soldier just thrusts them in and out between his lips, deep and scraping against his teeth, and it has much the same effect. 

The metal fingers come out of his mouth wet. But not wet enough for what the soldier has in mind. 

'Please, don't do this,' Steve begs as the other man presses his fingers between the crevice of his ass cheeks, searching. A chill goes up his spine as the hard press of cold metal finds his hole, just probing curiously for now, rubbing over the ring of muscle. 'You remind me of him, I don't want this.'

It clearly doesn't matter – hasn't mattered for a moment – to the soldier whether Steve wants it or not. He just pushes one digit forcefully inside Steve, and it _burns_ , the plating on the metal finger rough and catching. Steve flinches, nearly pulls away, but he manages to stay more or less stationary, his expression distraught. 

'I remind you of who?' the soldier asks as he begins slowly fucking the finger into Steve, opening him up. 

Steve shakes his head. For whatever reason, he can't bring himself to say the name, like it could make this all real, like it could make everything fall apart; wrong and broken. 

' _Who_?' the soldier repeats

Steve bites down on his lip, shaking his head. The soldier just barks an angry noise from the back of his throat, and shoves a second finger into his tight hole. Hissing in pain, Steve clenches around the intrusion. He'll heal fast enough, he knows, but for now it just a goddamn searing burn and it just feels so wrong, like a warped, twisted version of how Bucky used to open him up, slow and with sweet words whispering into his ear the whole time. 

He tries to put himself back in that place, because right now, escape from the moment seems to be the only way he can bear this. But it doesn't work, the soldier forcefully keeping him in the present as he pushes another finger in, sending pain shooting through Steve's body, his legs trembling, aching with it. 

'You remember this,' the soldier says, his voice lower. It's like a genuine inquiry, and Steve can feel tears pricking behind his eyes. He shakes his head again, not trusting himself with words. He doesn't. He _doesn't_. Nothing was ever like _this_. 

The soldier just snarls behind the mask and pushes his fingers in deeper and crooking them – it's like muscle memory, like he knows exactly where to press to get a reaction out of Steve, who lets out a startled cry as sudden pleasure sparks unbidden through his body. The pleasure is still riding the edge of pain, and feeling churns in his gut like sickness, but the soldier keeps going, keeps pressing to that spot, rubbing against it and fingering him open until Steve is sobbing and writhing on the concrete, his cock leaking against his will, the previous warning against moving apparently discarded. 

He's clutching at the soldier's uniform where he leans down over him, muzzle nuzzling against his jaw. 

'Please,' Steve begs, but he doesn't know whether he's begging for the soldier to stop, or to fuck him senseless. Regardless, when the soldier pulls his fingers out from Steve's body, he whimpers at the sudden feeling of emptiness and feels his hole tightening and clenching in the cool air. 

The sound of the soldier's fatigues unzipping is the only noise over Steve's panting and the heavy breaths muffled behind the mask. 'You _will_ remember,' the soldier insists, and pushes inside Steve. 

And god, but just for a moment it feels so, so _familiar_ , and Steve can't help but twist his head away, against the pavement, to avoid looking at the soldier, to avoid letting himself cry. Because it's nothing, nothing like the way it was before (it's cold and he's naked except for his pants trapping his ankles and the soldier is all rough leather chafing against his bare skin), and it can't, it just can't, can't, _can't_ be _him_. 

The soldier grunts in annoyance when Steve looks away, and suddenly there is a metal hand closing around his throat again, forcing him to look him in the eyes again. 'This is, this--' the soldier grits out the words around heavy breaths, sounding erratic and just a little bit frightened. 'I'm not, we, you and me, we've--'

Steve doesn't give him a response, just digs his teeth into his tongue and rides out the pain searing through the lower half of his body, tries to tamp down the insistent goddamn arousal and the sparks of trembling pleasure whenever the soldier thrusts into him _just right_. He doesn't want to get off on this, he _won't_ let the soldier make him. 

But the soldier seems caught up in his own desperate attempts to piece together whatever it is he's trying to wrap his head around. He's babbling, under his breath, muffled behind the mask and Steve is hardly following along. But whatever he's saying, it is frantic, confused, furious. His brows are drawn tight together, and his eyes glassy. 

From the way his thrusts are losing pace, Steve thinks the soldier must be close – against his will, Steve is close himself, and he hates it, hates his own traitorous body right now – and there is sweat trickling on his brow, his long dark hair growing damp with it. It slides down his face with the exertion of the fast, erratic thrusts, and seeping down into his mask. 

'Fuck,' the soldier gasps, interrupting his own babbling to bury his face in Steve's shoulder. He's rutting against him like an animal now, all shallow, timeless thrusts, the leather of his uniform rubbing Steve's cock against his own abdomen. Every short thrust is pounding into Steve's prostate, and it's too, too good, he doesn't want to come, but he can feel it building inside him, every nerve ending in his body alighting with it. 

Steve squeezes his eyes closed and tries to fight it back, but before he knows it he's spilling between them, smearing the soldier's uniform with his come and panting between choked out sobs. 

The soldier's unsteady breaths as he follows Steve over the edge are deadened behind the mask, echoing under Steve's ear. The metal hand around his throat tightens for just a second, and then the soldier goes boneless for a moment before pushing himself up on his unsteady human arm to looks down at Steve. 

The mask clings to his face for just a moment before it falls away from his face, the sweat loosening its mold to his skin. It clatters to the concrete ground with a sound like a gunshot.


End file.
